


Objectified

by Lover_of_all_things_Pat



Category: All Elite Wrestling, Professional Wrestling
Genre: Darby doll, Darby in a dress, Face Paint, Fantasy to cope with feelings, Feelings, M/M, Nail Polish, Princess - Freeform, Ricky Starks is an enabler, Stroke Daddy, Stroke Daddy loves his Princess, Toddle the Turtle, Unique Relationship, creep Ricky, depressed Darby Allin, fantasy role, gay wrestlers, horrible ending, lame stuff happens, roleplaying, selectively mute Darby Allin, sex doll fantasy, those boys love turtles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:41:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26985352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lover_of_all_things_Pat/pseuds/Lover_of_all_things_Pat
Summary: Ricky Starks only accepts the best and most expensive things. Then again, he has Darby...
Relationships: Darby Allin/Ricky Starks
Comments: 7
Kudos: 15





	Objectified

**Author's Note:**

> ... garbage idea, started late last night. Probably doesn't make sense.  
> Also, undergone title change.

Exiting the car after what felt like an already eternal night, Ricky collected his bags and waved to Brian Cage. "Nah, I can't go out tonight, man. I have to feed my turtle." He dug in the bag and pulled out a little container of turtle food to emphasize his point. "Toddle the turtle's been a little neglected lately. I haven't even cleaned his tank out in a few days. He's starting to smell like pond."

Brian laughed heartily at the idea of Ricky cleaning out a dirty, scummy, smelly turtle tank. It was a hard visual to imagine, given that Ricky was always so posh and conceited, squeaky clean except when he bloodied up in the ring. "Alright, Ricky. You have my number if you change your mind and want to come. It's going to be an absolute rager..." Brian meant it too.

Most of their parties were top notch. During the last one, Tony Hawk was booked for live entertainment but when the pro skater ended up being hit with a trashcan by a inebriated wrestler, he bailed like a little bitch. For this one, Brian couldn't be sure what was in store. It was bound to be great though. The Inner Circle would be supplying the Bubbly! But, as great as the party would be, Brian understood that Ricky cared about his stupid pet turtle.

A lot. Like, on a stupid, borderline obsessive level. To the point where he set up a camera to keep an eye on it- but it's a fucking turtle in a tank. What was there to watch? It wasn't going anywhere or doing any tricks. Cage is pretty sure he's even caught Ricky skipping out early on Dynamite to get home to that lame ass pet of his... DYNAMITE, for fuck's sake! No one blows off Dynamite. It just isn't done.

Except, Ricky's done it...

It's weird, really, that Starks would go such lengths and purchase the ridiculous animal, let alone have any nurturing feelings towards it.

But who was he to judge? After all, he is The Machine Brian Cage; he didn't view trivial things the same way others did. Thus he conceded, beeped the horn a couple times, bade farewell, and drove off, leaving Ricky to carry his things into the hotel. 

Ricky carried his things in, pointedly ignored the perky kiss-ass receptionist, and headed for his room, drawing out his room key along the way. Entering the room and shutting and locking the door behind him, he dropped everything except for the turtle food. "Hey, Toddle," he greeted as he approached. He unscrewed the lid and peeled and discarded the seal. Into the tank he dropped some little pellets and watched Toddle swim over to investigate the meal.

Sure, he could clean out the tank, but he'd lied to Brian; it didn't need cleaning because he'd cleaned it the day before. He just needed an excuse to be home for a while.

Toddle ate and he observed.

Then, when he'd seen enough of his shelled pet he put away the new container of food, turned to the bed, and looked at the _real_ reason he needed to be home tonight.

On his bed, laying out flat and still, immobile and pristine, immaculate, almost porcelain with those ghostly pale features, was Ricky's favorite new possession. Something so strange and unique and private, he'd told exactly zero people about this priceless gem. It was too good to share, so he kept it solely to himself.

A one of a kind collectible.

And it was all his.

He walked over to the bed to get a good look at his most recent acquisition. It looked just as good as he'd left it early that morning.

Pale, still, beautiful.

Like a perfectly preserved corpse, only better.

The paint was a little smeared though; that imperfection would need to be remedied. With a thoughtful frown, Ricky dug through a bedside drawer and pulled out a container of wetwipes. He was surprisingly gentle as he took a damp cloth and dabbed at his doll's cheek in small, easy strokes. The black and white paint came away and dirtied the wetwipe, so Ricky pitched it and grabbed another. When finished, Ricky set the container or wipes aside and pulled out black and white grease paint. He uncapped the white first, applied some to his hand, and began to rub it onto the left half of his doll's face. The paint goes on smooth and easy; then he switches out with the black. He's more careful with the black than the white because he has to apply it by means of imitating a half-skull design. His fingers run over the skin, blackened thumb tracing the underside of the eye, up around the lid and eyebrow, and then making a stretch towards the temple. He touches up around the nose, ear, side of the head, and down the pale column of throat, then finishes by marking the outline of teeth with a paintbrush to assure crisp lines. He cleans up his hands with another wipe and puts away the supplies before looking and admiring his handiwork.

It's amazing, truly, and he's a little proud of himself for doing such a bang up job. "Did you miss me?" He asks the question and then pauses, like he's waiting for an answer. No reply comes though. It never does. Ricky doesn't let that fact bother him though. He places a hand on that head and cards his fingers through bleached hair. It's soft and feels good against his palm, and his nails catch a little along that scalp...

He hums in appreciation because this thing... is absolutely beautiful, and he's grateful to have it all to himself. He indulges, lets his hands wander, feeling the cartilage of the ear, caressing a cheek, stroking downwards to trail along the throat and chest... He goes as far as to let out an appreciative groan when his hand presses flat and he feels the thump of a steady heartbeat.

His hands keep busy, tracing along that chest, thumb flicking over a hardening nipple and then moving to feel up those defined and overly sensitive obliques. He's rewarded with some light twitches as muscles spasm involuntarily at the stimulation.

"Beautiful," he says, and the word comes out like a whispered prayer. "Princess, you are something else."

His doll is shirtless but wearing leggings and shorts to grant the illusion of modesty. But there should be nothing modest about this ethereal creation.

And Ricky Starks can't wait to get those clothes off, so he doesn't. The moment his hands feel along those taut abs, he gets to work. The shorts slip down that narrow waist and over those slim legs and are discarded, dropped on the floor.

Starks is more slow and careful about removing the leggings.

His precious doll isn't wearing underwear, and that fact alone has him biting his lip and failing to hold back an obscene moan. Because this thing he has, it's better than a few nude photos; it's better than any pornographic magazine or movie. It's soft and warm; when he touches it, he can feel the skin shift over bone and muscle, and it's an addictive thing to feel. It makes him want to grab and touch and pinch and rub; there's a mildly sadistic part of his brain that supplies the term _break_ among those verbs, but he doesn't want to ruin his favorite new toy-

-he settles for climbing on the bed and settling himself over top of his doll.

"My Princess looks so damn good. Not as good as me, but you get the point." He leans in and his mouth brushes over a pair of soft pliant lips. "Don't be shy," he coerces. "It's just you and me... and Toddle the turtle. And Toddle won't try anything funny, but I might..." He grins at his little joke, like it's something he truly finds funny. And then he lowers himself so that he's laying on top of his doll.

The doll is so warm beneath him, it's breathtaking. He rocks against it and after a few languid body rolls, it's almost like the doll is reciprocating with its own little stuttering hip thrusts. So he keeps at it, grinding his hips into that of his doll, and with little provocation he's getting hard and excited and can't wait to plug himself into this amazing marionette.

Ricky's hands seek and find purchase on his doll's wrists, pinning them down on either side of its head like he's restraining a naughty, kinky lover. "It's okay, Princess. Stroke Daddy's going to take good care of you. Just let me..." he grinds again, and his own clothed dick brushes against that of his doll when his hips dip and slide.

His mouth stretches into a wide, almost feral grin when he realizes that his doll is, indeed, getting hard too.

"That's it, baby. Get excited for me..." He tries to work himself up, but it can be such a chore when his partner is so unhelpful.

 _Finally,_ his doll's lips part the slightest bit and it lets out a slow, suffering breath. 

"My little freak and your weird kinks," Starks speaks teasingly, almost fondly. "Here I am trying to keep your fantasy alive... and you can't even be bothered to give your daddy a kiss."

Allin rolls his eyes but props himself up on his elbows, leans in, and presses a set of chapped lips to Ricky's. It's slow and almost lazy and definitely dry, but Starks doesn't mind. It's a good feeling.

Ricky's just glad to have a his partner moving again. "I'll never understand why you like this so much..."

He gets no response, verbal or physical. His doll is silent more often than not and the eerie stillness is something he's gotten used to.

Ricky moves back and sits, resting his weight on Darby's thighs. There are a million things he'd like to do to the other wrestler but his mind is too curious and intrigued to skip ahead and miss out on what very well may be an explanation. So, he waits. And keeps waiting.

And waiting and waiting.

For a moment, Starks thinks the other wrestler is back to being wholly unresponsive; that the blonde is slipping further into his fantasy role as an object, but then Darby surprises him... by _speaking_.

And this is huge. Because he's gotten maybe twenty sentences out of Darby since their strange relationship began- and what a way it had begun.

- _Allin had lost to that asshole Jon Moxley and damn near needed carried out of that ring. The skater was hardly conscious, couldn't stay on his own feet without teetering off to the side and face-planting. And all Mox had to say was that Darby should have stayed down?_

_Ricky's an asshole and a heel, but he felt a little sympathetic that night when he realized that everyone was packing up and leaving, but Allin couldn't even pull his own jacket on by himself. So, he'd done the only logical thing he could have done at the time. He'd told Allin: "Hold still, and don't be a bitch," and he'd taken the jacket from Darby's all but useless, trembling fingers, and he helped Darby get an arm into one of those sleeves, and then worked the other._

_There was a strange little thrill then, at helping Allin get himself together, and that thrill only continued when Allin stood and his bag slipped out of his hand..._

_Either that little bag was terribly heavy, or Darby's fingers were broken._

_Ricky watched Allin make a decision to leave the bag and collect it later. Unfortunately, the skater only got a few steps away before he listed to the side and nearly fell._

_Ricky caught him. "Fuck you, Princess, Moxley really did a number on you, huh?" He wanted to say something snide and cruel, to keep in character and provoke a reaction, but Darby's eyes rolled in the back of his head and he passed out._

_When Darby later awoke, he was in Ricky's hotel room wearing a plastic tiara headband on his head. He admittedly felt ridiculous, and yet... there was something there, something about being looked after. He actively made a decision then and there that would define many nights to come._

_He refused to speak, made minimal eye contact, and simply did not move beyond what was necessary._

_At first, Ricky hated it, couldn't understand it. He'd openly shoved Darby around a few times, made some empty threats that nearly became less empty. But then he grabbed one of Allin's wrists raised the skater's arm, and when Ricky let go, the arm stayed there, like it was pose-able._

_"My own personal Darby doll, huh?" Ricky had made the joke, but there was no rebuttal that came. Allin just sat there, eerily silent, holding that position. It became a game of sorts, posing Allin in ways that couldn't be comfortable- but the blonde never complained. If something became too much, he just stretched out into a default position._

_When posing Allin grew stale, Ricky stripped him down, kept the underwear on, and put him in different outfits for amusement. It was like dressing up a dog, except funnier because he could dress up Darby fuckin' Allin._

_It was laughable seeing Darby in his iconic red Stroke Daddy jacket.  
_

_"Hey, Allin, say something if you don't want me to-" and so an experiment began... to see how far Ricky could push things before Allin bucked up and put an end to it._

_But Darby never did._

_Not when Ricky felt him up for the first time, pressed in with an awkward kiss- the kind where their noses meet before their mouths do- and eventually worked their way into the relationship they have._

_Darby comes to him now and then, randomly shows up in his room seeking a little attention._

_The first time Starks had come in from a long night and found Allin still and stiff as a prop, he'd nearly had a heart attack. He verbally assaulted the blonde but grew curious when he recognized the odd behavior... or lack of behavior, in general._

_"Alright, Babydoll, let Stroke Daddy take care of you-" and that would be the first of many times he'd said something like that to his doll._

_Because Allin was there for comfort. And no one else would understand it. Hell, Ricky barely gets it, and he's the one enabling the bizarre fantasy._

_Darby isn't always in doll-mode when he's with Ricky. But he doesn't usually talk, barring a few sentences over the span of a few weeks._

_Ricky has taken to feeding Darby by hand, and it's a unique experience to press his fingers into that mouth and feel the lip-tongue-teeth as Darby readily accepts small portions of food._

_Ricky washes and bleaches Allin's hair, learns to do his makeup fairly well, dresses the doll on a semi-regular basis. Sometimes it's a chore, but other times it's a gift._

_He doesn't fully understand what Darby gets out of it, but he does understand what he's getting out of it._

_It's a little exciting, knowing that Allin relies on him, needs him._

_And then Toddle came into the picture. They revisited the 'I like turtles' joke, and a day later, they ended up with a turtle to share together. Ricky had propped Allin up against the wall like he might fall over if left unsupported- as some dolls do- and then presented a neatly wrapped package._

_A gift._

_"Wanna see what Stroke Daddy got his Princess?" Ricky tore the paper away to reveal the pre-set tank complete with a little turtle inside._

_And this would give him insight to Allin's first big reaction._

_Darby took one look, just barely rolling his eyes in the direction of the tank, and he had to turn away and cover his mouth as a rusty, wheezy laugh came out._

_It was an incredible sound. And Ricky wanted more of it. His doll so seldom spoke, and he hoped to remedy that one day..._

-

So, that's how it began, and it is a decidedly big deal that Allin is _speaking_ to Ricky now.

What's more is what he says. "If you don't get it by now, you're a moron."

Starks is instantly peeved at what he hears. Because, what is there to get? He's been taking care of Allin for a while-

"I love you, you fuckin' idiot," and there it is, from the mouth of the doll.

The expression that crosses Ricky's face is one of shock and awe; he's not sure how to react to that. So he does the only thing that makes sense. He takes his doll into his arms and holds tight. "Fuck you, Allin, making people have feelings. Making me- Absolute Ricky Starks- have to work through this shit."

Sometimes it's almost painfully easy to love this living doll. Other times, it's so damn hard because Allin's eyes get a little unfocused and he completely checks out, which is what happens while Ricky holds him and confesses his own feelings.

"No, no, Allin. You're not a doll right now..." Ricky frowns when Darby's body goes limp like a ragdoll, neck not even willing to support his head. "C'mon, Allin, not right now..." Ricky tries snapping his fingers in front of Darby, but no reaction comes. "...perfect in so many ways, and you pull this shit when I try to talk to you..." Ricky's good mood is dampened marginally. He loves Darby, and he can put up with the weird fantasy and moody behavior, but sometimes this is a bit much.

When Allin slips into doll-mode, he's committed. Completely blank unless Starks can pull him out of it, or if Darby is aware of prior obligations that need tending.

Ricky makes a few more passes, a few more attempts to coax Darby back with him. He pats Darby's cheek a little too hard, gives him a shake- nothing works. He sighs heavily with disappointment and gives up, but offers the sentiment of: "I'll take care of you... even though you're a pain in the ass." With that, Ricky's up, and any sexual excitement he might have had before is long gone.

Getting up and off his doll, Ricky grabs a few personal items before returning to the bed. He slips his arms under his doll and helps it to sit up; he lets it rest against him while he takes a comb and carefully goes through those short little spikes of hair.

Darby leans heavily against Ricky and closes his eyes, enjoys the feeling of being held and having his hair combed. When his hair is decidedly done, his eyes remain closed but he feels his arms lifted one at a time as an article of clothing - _shirt?_ -is slipped over his head and his arms are maneuvered into the sleeves... except it's not a shirt. Because it's entirely too long and the interior feels soft and almost satiny. He feels the material slide down and there's a rough brush of lace against his thighs.

Ricky's hands are as careful as they are strong as Stroke Daddy takes his time laying Darby out on the bed and fixing the clothing material so that it looks proper rather than resting all bunched up and wrinkled.

Curiosity eventually gets the better of him, and Darby cracks and eye open, points his chin towards his chest and sneaks an eyeful of the clothing- and it's a dress, long and white and unassuming. It's such a surprise that he ends up opening both eyes wide and sitting up a little to get a better look.

It's very plain and simple, understated and bland, and...

...and it works. Beautiful and pristine in its own way.

Darby's breaking his own rules by sitting up, but he wants to see what Ricky is doing because Ricky has stopped touching him after the dress came on.

Ricky stepped away but is quick to return with a bottle of black nail polish and a pair of shiny dress shoes. "My Princess needs to look nice," he says, and he's not sure if he's saying this to Darby, or if he's just trying to fill the silence. He doesn't think on it, just slips the shoes onto Allin's feet one at a time and adjusts the straps before taking the nail polish and carefully tending to his doll's long bony fingers.

Allin watches but says nothing.

The nail-painting isn't as clean as it could be, but it's not a bad job. Once done, Ricky moves back to admire his work. "Yeah, that's my doll. My Princess..."

Allin's bottom lip quivers. He wants to open his mouth to say something, perhaps a word of appreciation or a confession of mutual fondness. What happens instead... his eyes squint and a tear slips out of the corner, and it is joined by others.

The tears leave trails of ruin through the face paint Ricky had taken the time to apply, and he sighs loudly at the wasted effort. "Don't cry... I said I'd take care of you, didn't I?"

Darby doesn't say anything. He's caught somewhere between being himself and being a doll. Words are lost to him but emotions are leaking and it's a hard combination to work through.

Ricky's arms circle around Darby and pull him in for a warm embrace. "You don't have to talk. Just nod or shake your head, Okay? Darby... are you alright?"

For a moment, there's nothing. Darby's gone still as a doll once more. Then, there's the faintest nod.

"Good. Now, I need you to talk to me. I need to know what you're thinking-"

A long stretch of silence comes and goes, and it ends with: "Thank you," coming out of Darby's mouth, and then that mouth moves in and captures Ricky's in a needy, almost desperate kiss.

Starks forces Allin away, needing to know what's going on in that pretty little head of his. He doesn't get to ask though because Allin is already supplying the answer.

"I just wanted to be accepted. And, thanks to you, I am."

Ricky still doesn't get it. Not really. He can't fully understand how Darby can lock himself in doll-mode for hours and just let things happen. But Ricky enjoys it most of the time, being able to take care of his Princess. And his Darby doll looks especially pretty in that little white dress and those shiny black shoes. Ricky gets a bold idea and slips a hand up that dress, rests it on Allin's bare hip and asks: "May I?"

Because he's an ass, but he values his weird relationship with Allin more than his reputation. So, of course he asks.

He doesn't expect an answer though. Not a verbal one. His doll doesn't talk much; tonight's number of sentences very well could be a record.

What he gets though, is: "I'd be insulted if you didn't. Look how nice I look?" Allin looks down at the dress, and when he lifts his head and catches Ricky with direct eye contact, his face is tinged red with heat and embarrassment. He purses his lip to prevent himself from saying anything more, lest he say something stupid.

Starks takes his time laying his Darby doll out on the bed, manually adjusting his arms and legs, and even the directional tilt of his head- like he's posing a mannequin.

Allin checks out and lets it happen, holding whatever position is asked of him.

"I hope you plan on being a doll tomorrow-"

Darby says nothing, but he had plans to skate. He'd been neglecting one of his favorite pastimes, and he should get back to it.

"-because I'm going to fuck you so hard you won't be able to walk. You'll _want_ to be a doll all day..." Ricky hikes up the little dress and exposes Allin, and he can't wait to defile that beautiful thing.

It's truly amazing when he enters Allin's tight heat, and his doll makes little breathy sounds but releases no actual moans or expletives. Just disrupted breathing patterns, little bouts of panting and tiny aborted gasps.

His doll's eyes are closed and that sinfully pretty mouth is open wide in ecstasy, and-

\---

Darby wakes up on the cold concrete floor, backstage at Dynamite, the morning after his big loss against Moxley. He's cold and curled up tight, seeking a warmth that just isn't coming.

He grits his teeth and squints his eyes shut and tries not to let despair sink in at the realization that absolutely everyone left him when he couldn't even stand up on his own.

Well, fuck them all.

Fuck Moxley for putting him in that state.

And Fuck Starks for being such an inviting idea in his dream.

Because it had been just that. A dream, bred of wishful thinking and the desire to escape.

And, in truth, he'd always really been alone.

No one wants a doll that's busted up and creepy, half painted and weird.

Allin just needs to accept that move on.

It's slow going, but he pushes himself up off the floor and collects his bag. He's limping, but he's leaving.

He aches, and he hurts, and he loathes humans so much... it's only fair that they feel the same about him.

**Author's Note:**

> ...I wanted to write for this pairing. But I got really stuck on the fact that Darby rhymes with Barbie.  
> So... now we have Darby doll. And this whole story.


End file.
